


The Things That Make Us Family

by aramisinaskirt (SilverMillennium_QueenNeptune)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Families of Choice, Gen, Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Male Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMillennium_QueenNeptune/pseuds/aramisinaskirt
Summary: While on a mission from the king  to recover stolen gold, Aramis finds himself wounded in a fire fight with the thieves. It is up to his Musketeer brothers to bring Aramis back to the Garrison in time to save his life, leaving the boys to explore the true meaning of gratefulness and family.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I just want to let those who are interested in reading this fic know that while it is still being worked on, there will not be any more updates published until it is complete.

Athos typically enjoyed his days as a Musketeer. He got to spend his hours with men he considered to be brothers in arms, even if they did work every last nerve in his body. He told himself to focus on the work, that the time for camaraderie would come later. He allowed himself a moment to shut his eyes in reflection, unsure that he recalled the last time it had been this quiet along the road.

They had been dispatched to find a group of bandits who were responsible for stealing gold that belonged to the king’s closest allies. He knew that the silence they were encountering now meant things were too quiet. He had sent Aramis ahead to try and track the thieves, and now he waited for some sort of signal. In typical fashion, his brother had now left them behind entirely, disappearing into the thick expanse of trees.

“I know what you’re thinking. Don’t.”, came a low voice in Athos’ ear that nearly made him jump out of his skin.

“Good God, Porthos. Give a man some warning, would you?!”, he snapped. Porthos could allow his leader this; it had been almost half an hour since Aramis had vanished into the thick of the woods, and though they had established a signal, the brush was so thick that sound easily bounced off of it and made it difficult to know what was going on. He cursed his friend’s stealth without a word and then refocused his mind on the one thought that had been ringing through it since Aramis had vanished beyond the wood.

_Of course, he would ride ahead without a word. Brave, fearless, stubborn Aramis. Never listens to a bleeding word we say. . . Treville is going to have his hide, again. And possibly mine. . ._

“ ‘Mis is fine. You know that. He’d have warned us. Unless. . . It’s not ‘im that worries you.” Athos said nothing, all the answer his brother needed. Athos had no reason to be concerned about the group’s expert marksman. Aramis had proved time and again that he was capable of getting himself out of precarious situations, even if it meant he was required to shoot his way out. Athos was still concerned, though he had held himself back from saying as much so as not to worry Porthos. He knew all too well that the two men shared a complicated upbringing that made their bond stronger than any in the Garrison. If Porthos was unconcerned, then he had no reason to be. He repeated it in his mind, hoping the thought might offer some comfort; he found none. Aramis had, once again, put all of them in a compromising position. Where the bloody hell had he disappeared to?

A shot rang out in the distance, followed by a pained cry that Porthos was certain could not belong to their brother. He and Athos exchanged looks and then galloped off to the source of the shot. They likely did not have much time to get there; if Aramis had only gotten off one shot, one of two things had happened. Either one shot was all he had needed (an idea that Porthos and Athos knew was fully within the realm of possibility for a man of Aramis’ skill) or he had been injured and the shot was a warning. Athos could not risk finding out a second too late.

“Let’s go.”

”Right behind you.”

* * *

Aramis lay on the ground, gritting his teeth at the pain in his right side. Thankfully, he noted that the ball of the musket had been caught by his armor, and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he had been wise enough to come prepared. He stared down at the crucifix around his neck, fumbling to grasp it as he began to pray again, this time searching for some sign that his brothers were on their way. The last thing he wanted was to perish here, to leave behind the family he had built. Their faces flashed in his mind, their voices echoing through the chaos, telling him to fight. He blacked out just as the outline of a familiar figure towered over him.

“Athos? Porthos?” Athos took a good look at his friend and swore a low oath under his breath.

“He’s hurt, we need to get him back to the garrison and quickly.”

“I’ve got him. If only there were a way to send word to D’Artagnan— we’re going to need Lemay to look him over.”

“Wha’ ‘appened?”, Aramis slurred, his eyes drooping. Though Porthos did not have the skills of a physician, he had spent enough time watching Aramis work to know when things were bad.

“Hang on, brother. We’ve got you. Athos, there’s no time, we have to ride, now. I’m sorry, ‘Mis. I truly am.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Athos, d’ya think we got to him in time?” Porthos’ gritted his teeth in an attempt to ignore the worry in his own voice. He wanted to believe that he had no reason to worry, that Aramis was going to be fine and that it would all work itself out. His brother was clinging to him as tightly as he was able, but Porthos could barely feel the grip. He did not want to think about what that meant. He could not lose Aramis, not like this. Not after everything else they had survived. Athos was silent, brooding again, likely thinking of the right answer. Not the correct one, of course, but the right one; God only knew if they had gotten to Aramis in time to save him. He hoped so; God, how he hoped so.

“I don’t know, Porthos. I want to believe we did, but there are so many factors. The biggest problem will be fetching the doctor in time. You know how much he does for us when. . .”, Athos trailed, gaze on Aramis again. He was their field medic, the one who had seen to most of their cuts and scrapes and been there through the worst of it. Porthos’ gaze leveled; he knew what Athos was implying, and it made him all the more concerned. What were they to do when it was their medic who needed attention?

Returning to the garrison proved difficult, and Athos could tell that they were running out of time. If they did not get him help soon, Aramis would not live through the evening. He cursed their luck; the one person who would know how to take care of this wound in the field was also the one suffering from it. He could feel the helplessness rising in him; panic making his stomach churn and forcing their morning meal into his throat. He shoved it down again; he could not allow himself the luxury of being concerned.

“ ‘Thos? Wha’ if we can’t fetch the doctor?” Porthos’ voice was strained with concern for his brother. That was a grim reality that Athos had considered. Of course there was only one answer: Aramis’ fate would be sealed, their brotherhood forever scarred by the loss of one they loved and could not protect. If the doctor could not be reached, they would have to care for Aramis’ wounds themselves, and the thought of that terrified them. Where in the world was D’Artagnan when they needed him?

“Lemay will come.”, Athos swallowed the lump of concern in his throat. Lemay would come, he would see to that. He would not lose a brother this way. Aramis might have been happy to die on the battlefield, but Athos knew there was no way they could survive without him. The four of them had a rapport better than any in the Musketeer regiment. They were the best of the best; because they trusted each other and knew how to work well together.

D’Artagnan had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach as he waited for the others to return. Something had told him to ride back and make sure that there was a way to get in touch with the doctor. Athos would pay whatever Lemay asked if it meant their brother would live. Finding Lemay now was paramount. He did not want to consider the possibility that it might be too late. Returning to the Garrison now felt shallow and agonizingly slow. Aramis’ life was at stake, and each of the Musketeers hated the idea that there was so little they could do to help him.

There was prayer, of course. They could drown their worries while they waited for news. D’Artagnan had to laugh at his own melancholy. This was not what Aramis would want, but none of them wanted to face the idea of losing one of their brothers; especially not like this. Aramis had, as usual, been a fool to go off on his own. Aramis was always the one who ran into danger, and this time it might cost him everything.

“We don’t have time to wait.”, Athos found himself saying.

“But we can’t.”

“We have no choice, Porthos. We ride for the Garrison, now! If Aramis dies . . .”

“ ‘e. . . Won’t, will he, Athos?”

“Not if we have anything to say about it. Hyah!”


	3. Chapter 3

D’Artagnan had been dispatched by Captain Treville almost as soon as he returned to the Garrison to fetch Doctor Lemay. Treville knew that the situation was dire, and so he had ordered them to prepare for the arrival of the injured Musketeer. He had grown close to all of the men in the regiment. But Treville and Aramis had seen war together, and it had both brought them close and irrevocably scarred them. They all remembered how it had gone when Aramis’ old friend had shown up accusing Treville of treason, claiming that he had left the regiment to fend for itself and cost the lives of thousands of Musketeers.

There was a part of him that had always regretted the decision to send the regiment into danger. At the time there had been little time for debate or choices. Treville had attempted to look out for the men as much as he could, and he had failed. Aramis hated thinking of that day. Now, Aramis was fighting for his life, and there was little time to waste. If Treville failed them here. . .  
  
 _This isn’t about Treville. You need to focus on getting the doctor and getting back to Aramis as quickly as you can._

“D’Artagnan! Get going!!!”, snapped a voice from the other side of the Garrison. Ever the dutiful soldier, D’Artagnan started to mount his horse and then saw riders in the distance. His brothers, with Aramis slumped against Porthos’ back. He froze for a moment, before realizing that his brothers had returned on their own. His face was frozen with horror at the sight of Aramis, whose clothes were now soaked with blood. Was there any way that Lemay would make it now when their friend was in such dire straits? Treville, clearly troubled by the sight, could not look into the pained and ashen visage laying before him.

“No, no, no. This cannot happen. If Aramis dies here. . .”

“If Aramis dies, it is only because he was a fool who did not follow orders. But we do not intend to lose a brother today if we can help ourselves. Do we, Porthos?”

“ ‘Course not. This is Aramis. Too stubborn to die.”, Porthos offered with a laugh. But even Treville knew that he was trying not to think about the death of a man who was the closest thing he had to a biological brother. Aramis and Porthos had endured similar childhoods. This connected them in ways no one else in the Garrison would ever understand. There was a bond between the two men that none of the other Musketeers would ever reach. Even D’Artagnan, whom Aramis seemed to care for beyond words, had no way to understand. Aramis and Porthos were cut from much the same cloth, men whose mothers’ were shunned by society. Aramis, for his part, had made the most of things, arriving at the regiment and ascending the ranks of the Musketeers with gusto, determined to make something of himself. This was how Porthos could be so certain of his friend’s survival; Aramis’ bravery and cunning had seen him through many a crisis. The man practically had nine lives. Porthos was not willing to accept that such a charmed life would end because of a gunfight.  
  
To say that Aramis’ life flashed before his eyes in those moments would be an overstatement. The poor soldier drifted in and out of consciousness, trying desperately to remain awake. He did not wish to die here, not as a result of some fool’s errand. This was not how his story was meant to end. But he was tired. He was so very tired; unable to so much as lift his head. He remembered every woman he had loved, every man he had killed, and every moment in between. He shivered, remembering the cold nights he had spent with fellow soldiers under Treville’s command, surrounded by bodies. Was he now meant to join them? If he did, what awaited him beyond the mortal coil?

He was scarcely aware of being lifted and placed onto a table. He could vaguely hear voices he knew— those of brothers in arms who had been at his side in the direst of circumstances and always would be. But it was also painfully evident that no one stood in these woods with him. Aramis was utterly alone, and there would be no one to save him. No one would mourn him when he was gone. His brothers had all vanished.

“We need to hurry. He’s slipping away; he doesn’t have much time.”

“Where’s D’Artagnan with the bleeding doctor?!”

“Porthos, calm down. D’Artagnan does not wish Aramis dead any more than you or I. He’s on his way, we just need to do whatever we can to make sure Aramis stays alive until he returns.” Athos attempted to remain calm, but even he was cracking under the strain of the wait. Each second that ticked by put Aramis’ life in more danger. But Athos remained convinced that Aramis was too stubborn to die and thus would not allow them to bury a brother today. Some fool’s errand might well be their brother’s undoing, but it was not likely to be this.

“But. . .”

“Was it not you, Porthos, who recently suggested he was too stubborn to die?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Then we must count on that virtue to carry him through. You know this. Nothing we say or do now can save his life.” Porthos’ sigh could be felt as well as heard. He hated the helplessness that came with the entire situation. He was not skilled in medicinal herbs the way Aramis was, nor was he as handy with a needle and thread. He could do nothing more than to hope that fate smiled on them and God decided it was not yet time to bring Aramis to his eternal rest. Perhaps this year, they might have something for which they could truly be grateful.


	4. Chapter 4

The ride to the garrison had become agonizing for Aramis, who was now trying his best to stay awake. He fought the instinct that told him he was meant to die like this. It wasn’t the dying that terrified him. It was the uncertainty of it all. Would God have mercy on a man like him, who placed carnal pleasure over everything else? Aramis was not ashamed of the fact that he had loved many women and loved them well. Even when those romances had placed him in the greatest danger, he refused to give them up. 

Athos had warned him long ago that he needed to be more cautious. Now, that warning burned within him; it had not only been reserved for his amorous adventures. His reckless nature might cost him his life this time. He could still hear the smug tone in his brother’s voice. His liaisons with Adele Bessette were well known to Athos and Porthos. Aramis remembered the time when he had professed his love for the woman without mentioning her name. It had been Athos who pointed out that the thing Aramis “loved” was stealing that which belonged to the Cardinal. At the time, he had pretended to take offense. How dare Athos accuse him of being nothing more than a common thief. 

Now, Aramis wondered if he was right. He had always had trouble believing that she had simply abandoned him. Of course, she would have been a fool to leave the bed of a powerful man like Richelieu. Aramis had accepted long ago that he was not the first, nor the only man who had the pleasure of bedding Adele, but he loathed the idea that the man who provided her with the finer things was the very same who fought him and his brothers at every turn. Richelieu’s thirst for power and disdain for the Musketeers were well known. Man of faith though he was, Aramis had little use for a power-hungry fool like the Cardinal. He had always dreamed of being in the Cardinal’s place. Somewhere in his brain, lingered a memory that he could not forget.

* * *

**_Adele let out a soft sigh as her head hit the pillow. Her golden curls were a mess, her eyes sparkling. Flames of passion were still fading from her gaze, and she turned to face her lover with an intensity that might have made him feel he would melt if he came too close to her. She brought her hand up and traced it along his side. She was intrigued by everything about him. If she told the truth, she wished that he would carry her away, take her with him to a place where she no longer had to hide her feelings. She had been afraid to admit it, but Aramis had captivated every single thought._ **

**_Was she truly simple enough to have let herself fall in love with him? He lived an uncomplicated and uncluttered life, and he could not give her the extravagance to which she had become accustomed. But in this moment, the only thing she cared about was that he was here. He had actually cared enough to come to her when she requested his company. There was something that set Aramis apart from any other man that had loved her. He truly cared; he saw her as a woman with needs and not some prize or political tool. Aramis could not bring himself to believe that any of this was real; one of her no doubt numerous other dalliances would burst through the door at any moment and he would be forced to hide in order to preserve his life._ **

**_Aramis had always been careful not to be caught by anyone who did not know his habits. Adele was a darling woman, and he adored her beyond all reason. Was this what love was supposed to feel like? Oh, no. He was in love. He had always promised himself that he would never fall in love. But Adele had captivated him. When he was with her, he did not need to concern himself with the duties of a Musketeer, or his friends or anyone who might wish him harm. In Adele’s arms, he was safe, and nothing existed for those moments but the two of them. There had never been a need to say the words; he could feel the love radiating from her smile when he entered the room._ **

**_“Will you stay with me, Aramis?”_ **

**_“Adele. You know I cannot. If the Cardinal. . .”_ **

**_“Armand is harmless.” Aramis fought a scoff at those words. He had never considered Cardinal Armand Richelieu to be in any way, shape, or form ‘harmless’. Much as Aramis hated to admit it to himself, he realized that Adele saw Richelieu in a different light than he ever could; where the man had spent a lifetime trying to undo everything that the regiment stood for, the Armand that Adele knew was different. She had seen a side of him that was vulnerable. He wanted to believe that she loved him. But how could that be true when she was also the mistress of the man who wanted everything he lived for to come undone._ **

**_“He is harmless to you. He wishes to do away with me and my brothers, you know? He would see me dead before allowing me a shred of happiness. If he finds me here with you, there is no way to know what he may do.”_ **

**_“You should go, before I lose the will to let you.”_ **

* * *

  
That was one of the final times Aramis had seen Adele alive. He could not die without knowing he had done all that he could, not only for her, but for everyone he had ever loved. So many people had left him. Many of those deeply felt losses were at least in part his fault. He blamed himself for letting the woman he had adored slip through his fingers. As his world began to fade to black again, a gentle voice called from the other side. 

“You have to go back.” As Aramis watched with widened eyes, her face took on a saddened expression. It told him that she had hoped to be reunited with him. Fate, however, was not prepared to be so kind. She was here to make certain that he lived. 

“Adele? Wait, what do you mean? I have to ‘go back’? But I haven’t gone anywhere. What are you talking about?”

“As much as I would adore letting you be at peace, my darling Aramis. . . You cannot yet come where I am. You have more to do. You deserve to be able to love again. You should have the family that you always wanted. It’s only a matter of time before you do. I loved you, yes, but I was never right for you. You deserved a woman dedicated to you and only you. I was only a common . . . “ Aramis would not let her finish. 

“No. I refuse to let you do that to yourself, Adele. Right or wrong, I did love you.” It was the first time he had let himself admit that there had been a deep connection with her when it was not meant to be a moment of bragging or a chance to let his brothers tease him. He wanted better for her than this. He had wanted to take her away. Though he knew she would never have consented to be anything more than his mistress, he would be a liar and a fool to claim he had not dreamed of such a reality. 

“You did.” There was no need for the affirmation, and yet it was there. The emotions were raw, painful, and almost too much for him to handle. He began to wonder why she was here now, and then it dawned on him. If he was seeing her then it could only mean one thing. 

“It is not yet your time.” Aramis’s eyes went wide. He could not believe what he was seeing and hearing. He told himself that some infection had set in or perhaps a fever had given him delirium. Adele could not be here. Even if she were, she had no power to tell him such things. . .

Unless. . . 

There was no way. He couldn’t be— could he? But— she was. She had been gone for quite some time now. Adele was giving him permission to leave her behind. She was giving him permission to live. He did not want it, but he had no choice. Take the gift she had offered him or die; those were his options. Adele would have wanted him to live and to move on. If he died here, what would happen to his brothers? D’Artagnan still needed quite a bit of training. Porthos would not trust anyone other than Athos. He did not even know where to begin with Athos. But what would it mean to live without her? He had only recently discovered how much he cared for her when it was too late to do anything about it. 

That was the true root of his hatred for Richlieu. He defiled the office he held by making light of his vow. He had let power become more important than the souls of the people who needed him most. Aramis may have had his own flaws, one of them being his lust, but he constantly struggled within himself to overcome those temptations. Aramis did his dutiful penance, attempting not to be consumed. He was the one who closed the eyes of the dead on the battlefield and prayed for their souls to find peace no matter what side they had been on. It was only right that they die with a sense of dignity. He had done only what any man of honor would do; let the men go to God with a deserved peace. Death was difficult enough.

That was what set Aramis apart from any other soldier. It was why he had become as skilled as he was with herbs and other remedies. It was as important to know how to attempt to save a life as it was to know how to take one. Perhaps that was why Adele insisted it was not his time. He still had more to do. There were others who would be eager to learn these skills. As he let his eyes close again, a cloud of dark thoughts descended upon him, and the one that spoke the loudest chilled him to his core. He may not have the opportunity to live long enough to teach such skills to anyone. He had to hope that Lemay would be called in time. If not, he was a dead man. Then all of this would be for nothing. He had to believe that his brothers cared far too much to let him die. With that peaceful consideration in mind, his injuries overwhelmed him again, and the cloud of thoughts became a blanket of welcome nothingness that would settle over him until they came to the Garrison. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Lemay treats Aramis' wounds, the boys discuss their concern about him. Porthos and Athos ask permission to track the thieves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know I said there wouldn't be any updates until this one was complete but I could not resist the urge to post this chapter.

D'Artagnan halted his horse in front of a modest building and hurried inside. He was losing his patience with the entire situation, but with the life of a Musketeer hanging in the balance, there was no time to waste. Praying that the physician was inside and not too preoccupied, he dismounted his horse and hitched it to a nearby post. D'Artagnan had no use for doctors; they were too costly and often too far away from those who most needed their services. He hoped for Aramis' sake that there was no other medical emergency which took precedence today.

When he entered, he found Lemay at a desk looking over some papers or other which seemed to be vexing him. There was no one else in the office, so he took a further step inside. This time, Lemay looked up. Realizing from the look on D'Artagnan's face that something had gone terribly wrong, he spoke softly for the first time that afternoon.

"Whatever need you have of me, young man, speak it. The look on your face tells me that a life may be in danger." It was then that he looked into the face of his visitor, now fully invested in whatever it was he had to say. He recognized the dire look crossing the young man's features, and then it struck him. They had a field medic who knew his herbs and was skilled enough to treat minor wounds. But whatever the boy had been sent for, it was no minor emergency. LeMay cast a glance in his direction, and saw the urgency in his eyes. Before he could form a sentence, the doctor did it for him.

"D'Artagnan? Has one of your comrades been wounded?"

"I'm afraid so. He's back at the Garrison awaiting us. I was sent alone to fetch you. Please, we have little time." Lemay nodded and grabbed a bag from the desk, along with his hat. It was not raining, but the air smelled of it, enough so that it prodded D'Artagnan to speak again. He knew that if they waited any longer, Aramis would not survive his wounds. Neither man would live with such a senseless death on their conscience. Of course, the Musketeers would move on, but the loss would be felt through the entire regiment.

"Come, we must hurry. If Aram— my comrade—if he dies, I. . .", D'Artagnan's voice choked on the words, raw and strained. He and Aramis were only reaching a new level of trust. He wanted to glean all he possibly could at the feet of the regiment's best marksman, but he could not very well learn from a phantom. The doctor took pity on his expression. The regiment was well known to be tight-knit and it was rare to see one of it's three—now four, LeMay supposed—men without his brothers close behind. That meant that Athos and Porthos must have gone with Aramis. How unfortunate that the man in need of a doctor was the one with the closest to a physician's skills. LeMay had been witness to Aramis' handiwork on more than one occasion; enough to believe the man might have missed his calling. There was no one in the regiment who was more swift with both musket and needle; equally trained to take a life or save one as the need presented itself. But Lemay also knew the grim reality. Aramis' training was little more than emergency field medicine. The knowledge he held could patch a wound, perhaps prevent a more dire medical issue, if the patient was lucky.

If the patient was lucky. Not many patients were lucky with the present available resources. Lemay loathed that aspect of his profession with a passion. There were too many scenarios and chances for a doctor to lose a patient. Too many things that it would be nearly impossible for a man to anticipate when his entire focus was on the moment or the heat of battle. Aramis had seen those circumstances and lived through them. Lemay could only imagine the dark and dire times the man had seen. If he could get Aramis through this, there would be time for him to trade stories. Perhaps he could learn some things that would be useful when he needed to treat a wound in an emergency. The idea made him chuckle; to assume a trained medical professional could learn something from a younger man who had been forced to learn on a battlefield with no other recourse. Still, Aramis took pride in doing what he could; and he was careful of every stitch he made. Lemay could admit that his was a life worth saving, if for no other reason than for the Musketeers to have someone at hand with his knowledge. Lemay hoped that he could save the brave and loyal Musketeer.

He knew only the sparse details of Aramis' injury, but it was enough to spur him into action. They would need to bleed him. Lemay hated the prospect of bleeding a patient. The doctor was not at all bothered by the sight of blood. However, the procedure itself gave him pause. It was messy, and there was no guarantee that it would work, even if it were performed by an experienced physician. He knew that Aramis' life and skill set were valuable, but for him, the former was what took precedence. No Musketeer could offer aid to the king or anyone else if their lives had been lost in the process of following orders. D'Artagnan had been right to worry. As any physician worth his salt would do, Lemay pressed for more details as they rode, hoping to get a clearer picture of what awaited him.

"I'm afraid all I can tell you is that Aramis wandered off on his own after a band of thieves. They must have fired on him as he attempted to stop them. I was not present for the fight, so I know only what was recounted to me by Athos."

"I see. I don't know whether to call Aramis a noble man or a fool." D'Artagnan almost laughed. Only a man who didn't know Aramis would call him a fool. He might be a bit reckless, but he was dependable.

"He strikes me as a bit of both, Doctor, though I'd sooner call him. . . Shall we say, 'impulsive'. He always has, it's typical of him to be reckless. He's lived for being one of us, for protecting others and ensuring the King and Queen are safe and the realm is protected. That is how he was taught and he will never change." D'Artagnan stifled a laugh; truer words had never been spoken of his comrade, though these were things that the two closest to him would never admit. Or, if they did, Aramis would pay them no heed. Not that it mattered now; If the marksman was as severely injured as D'Artagnan believed him to be, there would be no words required when they arrived.

Lemay was doing his best to stay calm, in the hopes that he could reassure the other Musketeers, but when they arrived at the garrison, all he saw were grim faces. Still, these were the King's men, and therefore, he would do his best to see that no one died today. He turned to Treville, who was watching grimly from the corner of the room.

"Monsieur. I came as quickly as I could."

"Thank you, Doctor. We have no time. Tell me what you need and I or my men will fetch it for you at once."

"We need to make certain that Aramis is not awake for this, it will cause him immense pain. I require salted water to clean his wounds." "Athos, already two steps ahead, fetched the water as Porthos checked his friend for signs of consciousness. He smiled gravely, then turned to Lemay,

"I know Aramis better than anyone. I can handle that. Sorry about this, brother." With those words, he gave his comrade a blow that would render him unconscious for at least a few hours. Lemay looked stunned but tried to remain unaffected. Porthos shrugged, offering the explanation that Aramis disliked being knocked out, and so Porthos had made it fast and relatively painless. With the assist completed, the other Musketeers quit the room to give the doctor space to work. It was daunting enough for them without watching to see what would transpire.

"You think he'll be all right, Athos?"

"We did what we could, D'Artagnan. If he dies, it will be tragic, but he will be at. . ."

"Oi! 'Mis won't die. Gotta stay positive, don't we?"

"You're absolutely right, Porthos. I apologize."

"We've survived worse. I 'av to believe 'e knew what was comin'."

"So we do nothing now but wait?"

". . . And pray. Aramis has always believed in prayer. Perhaps God will have mercy on us all." The room fell silent at those words. Captain Treville had known Aramis from a young boy and there was no doubt in any of their minds that the statement was true. All they could do was to wait, pray, and hope against hope that Aramis was strong enough to survive.

"And then what?"

"Then we find the thieves ourselves. With the odds a bit more even, they won't get away again. You can be assured that we will make this right. They'll rue the day they chose to hurt one of us."

"That they will, it's the Musketeer motto."

"All for one. . .", Porthos shot a glance to Aramis, who now appeared to be resting peacefully, and let Athos finish.

". . . And one for all. Now, with your permission, Captain, may we go find these scoundrels?"

"I want nothing more, Athos. Only do try to bring them back alive."

"As always."


End file.
